Bodiam Castle

This was the glorious scene confronting us at the beginning of today's six mile jaunt around some of England's finest countryside.
Bodiam Castle is the epitome of what every schoolboy imagines a castle should look like. It's got the ramparts, portcullis and the obligatory moat surrounding it. You can easily slip back through the mists of time and imagine yourself manning the ramparts and raining arrows on the poor unfortunates below. The only hordes that swarm over it now are tourists eager to capture some of that sense of history that pervades from every stone.

This view was taken about ten minutes into the walk up a track leading away from the castle. On days like today we truly do live in the 'Garden of England'. And yes, that is a vineyard you see on the right. Unfortunately, the fruit wasn't ripe as yet, but we did manage to scrump some delicious blackberries en route.


We stumbled across this beautiful 14th century manor house at the end of a grassy track. I always marvel at some of the little gems tucked away deep in the countryside away from prying eyes. This place is called Great Wigsell and it has been owned by the Culpeper family over the centuries. We briefly met the owner on the drive exercising her two black labs'.

Barney the wonderdog was his usual pain in the arse. Whining half the time in the car and when we do get out, he thinks he's pulling a sled judging by the way we were dragged along half the time. Funny how he would only pull us down hill, but never up.He managed to find a couple of ponds on the way in which to cool off. I was tempted myself 'cos it was bloody hot out there. Resisting the temptation of 'The Curlew' public hostelry we eventually staggered back into the castle car park three hours later. A beautiful mornings walk ended with a delicious picnic in the grounds of the castle. And what will we be doing tomorrow on this Bank Holiday weekend? We will be doing bugger all, that's what.

We get our walks from walkingworld.com which is a treasure trove of walks for all parts of our sceptered isle. If you're a seasoned walker (I hate the term, 'rambler'), this site is certainly worth a peek at.

Insurance, the white mans burden

How do I know that the car insurance is due?

Because the Amazon rain forest has this week been seriously depleted to provide all the paper for every insurance company known to man to line my hallway with their "exclusive offers to a safe driver like me".

It appears that once the half century has been reached, a transformation occurs. No longer are you that naive, thrill seeking boy racer with ne'er a care in the world as you unflinchingly splatter hedgehogs and drench old ladies with kerbside puddles. Once over fifty, you become sensible and plodding and therefore less of a risk.

HAH!! I've fooled 'em.

Hedgehogs still quake at my approach and octogenarians of either sex don waterproof gear once I wheel spin out of the drive.

Who am I trying to kid? I am what they think I am. And yes, I have looked at the SAGA quote. Aren't they bloody expensive? I may be over fifty, but I cannot afford to lose either an arm or a leg to pay their premiums.

No, I shall do what every upstanding citizen does and go for the cheapest one.

Whatever happened to taking risks?......sigh

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N.B. The title is an episode from the Goon show and not some underhand racist remark. So stop all hopping about, it just seemed appropriate to my whinge.

Don't sail in this Captain's ship

On Saturday, we made a last minute decision to charge down to the sea and splash about, catch crabs, get sunburnt and do all the stuff that goes into a good ol' fashioned English trip to the seaside.

Being miserable bastards, we searched for a quiet unpopulated beach to sprawl on. Not for us the great unwashed with their screaming rug rats running riot amidst great globules of shiny pink flesh slowly frying to a turn in that strange phenomena called the sun. No beach balls smashing into crisps and warm orange juice. Just a reasonably quiet beach where we could chill. Hard to find in Kent, although we have the longest coastline in the country.

Kingsgate Bay came up trumps. Small, quiet and safe swimming. Unfortunately the nearest place for the motor is in the car park of the 'Captain Digby' pub. They charged us a tenner (yes, a bloody tenner) on the understanding that if we bought a meal inside, the charge would be waived. Perfect, we thought.

After three hours fun on the beach we returned to the pub for some scran, only to be informed whilst ordering the grub that there is in fact no policy to refund car parking fees to non-customers. I politely pointed out to the youth who was masquerading as management that as we were ordering food, surely that entitled us to be called, customers.

"It doesn't work like that" was his oft to be repeated answer.

Apparently, if we had walked directly into the pub and ordered a meal after paying the exorbitant amount they charged us, we would be discounted when we ordered some food. I not so politely (I was getting seriously pissed off by now) told this twat, that "If I wanted to use his poxy pub, I certainly wouldn't pay a tenner to park my car as I would be a 'customer', wouldn't I?"

"It doesn't work like that".

It does drag on much more, but I had met the jobs worth from hell, so I told him to stick his food where the sun don't shine and that "Thanks to his helpfulness, I will never darken his door again".

The moral of this sad tale is that because of this wankers attitude, instead of getting twenty to thirty quids worth of trade from a happy customer, he was quite happy to make do with a tenner from a distinctly unhappy customer who will never return and will certainly tell all and sundry what mean spirited prats they are at the Captain Digby.

Remember the name, for the worst reasons.

Needless to say. Thorley Taverns (their parent company) received a snotty e-mail. As yet, I have received no reply.

This is England.

Should I hold my breath?